


Apollo 13

by acequid



Category: Glee
Genre: Episode: s04e18 Shooting Star, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:47:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25058710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acequid/pseuds/acequid
Summary: Shots go off in McKinley, Brittany is trapped alone, and Santana tries to traverse six hundred miles instantaneously.
Relationships: Santana Lopez/Brittany S. Pierce
Comments: 3
Kudos: 128





	1. New York, We Have A Problem

BEGIN TRANSCRIPT

[call connected]

Hello?

_Santana, thank god, oh my god, oh my god—_

Tina?

_I can’t get to them! They—they’re inside and I can’t—sorry, excuse me—MOVE!— I can’t get to them—_

Tina, what the hell is going on?

_Jesus christ, Santana, there’s been a—crap—_

[call disconnected]

[call connected]

Tina! Dammit, pick up!

_Sorry, sorry about that, no, Santana there’s been [indistinct] —shooting, someone fired shots, oh god, there were gunshots! In the school! I can’t—I’m outside—_

What the hell do you mean? Gunshots? Like, _gunshots_ gunshots? Like from a gun? 

_Someone’s shooting in the school, oh my god Santana, I’m outside, but everyone else is still in there! Everyone! Every—_

Shhh! Shut the hell up, Berry! [indistinct] —Tina, slow down. Slow down. I can’t understand you when you’re crying. I’m not going anywhere. Slow down, tell me what’s happening.

_A few minutes ago. There were two gunshots. I was outside, and—jesus—I just started running, everyone just started running! They’re having Glee practice right now! They’re all inside and I can’t get to them! Santana, I don’t know what to do, they’re keeping everyone away from the school, I don’t know what’s happening, I—[indistinct]_

Stay on the line with me. Dammit! Stay on the line with me, Tina. It’s okay, oh my god, okay, it’ll be okay just keep talking, please, just keep talking to me—Kurt! We’re going to the airport—keep talking, Tina.

_I can’t see anything, I’m going to try texting Blaine, okay? I-I’m going to—alright. Okay, just give me a second._

[muffled, indistinct] There’s someone shooting. At McKinley. Yes, a gun! No, this is Tina—I don’t know, she’s outside. She doesn’t know. No, she said they’re inside—I don’t know! She’s texting him right now. I, christ, okay she’s on speaker, Tina? You’re on speaker. Rachel and Kurt are here. Still with us? Tina? Tina!

_—Sorry, yes, I’m still here. Blaine’s typing. Thank god, he’s typing. Santana, there aren’t even any cops yet, I don’t know what’s taking them so long, I—[indistinct]_

Pull yourself together! Breathe, Tina. Just breathe for a second. You’re safe, right? Take deep breaths. Just like that, deep breaths.

_He just responded! They’re….in the choir room. With Mr. Schue and Coach Beiste. He says they can’t hear anything anymore, but—oh. Oh no._

Tina, what the _hell_ —

_Brittany was in the bathroom. She’s—she’s not with the rest of them, she’s outside. Oh, Santana…_

[muffled]

_Santana? Hello?_

….Tina, it’s Kurt. Can you—could you...tell Blaine...no. No, nevermind. Just keep talking to us honey, we’re on our way. I know that can’t possibly be comforting right now, but no matter how long it takes us, we’re on our way, okay? What’s happening now? Keep talking to Blaine!

_Sam keeps trying to run out after Brittany. Artie...A-Artie’s recording videos of all of them...Kurt, I’m so scared._

Just stay on the phone, Tina. Stay safe. Mr. Schue...Mr. Schue wouldn’t let anything…

_Blaine’s typing again. [indistinct] —Oh thank god, sirens, the police, finally—Mr. Schue went out after Brittany! Tell Santana—Santana? Did you hear that? Blaine says Mr. Schue left the choir room to get Brittany._

I’ll tell her, hold on, here, take this—[indistinct]. Tina? Tina, it’s Rachel. Santana’s trying to hail us a cab right now. It’ll be alright, Tina. You said the police are there now? What’s happening?

_[muffled] I...ow! Sorry. They’re moving us farther away. A crowd of us…[muffled]_

Tina?

_—cruisers. There’s a whole bunch of them, I can’t really...can’t really see much, but I think someone said ‘SWAT’ so...that’s good, right?_

Of course. Of course that’s good. SWAT—hold on—I don’t know what the fastest way is! Someone look up the next flight to Ohio from JFK! [indistinct]

_I think something’s happening, there’s a group of police right outside the doors. I-I have to call my parents back, Rachel I’m so sorry, I’ll be right back—_

[call disconnected]

END TRANSCRIPT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tina would have called Santana for sure, because they’re Bros.


	2. In Space No One Can Hear You

The girl in the stall stands perfectly still.

She stares at the ground because she can’t look up.

She can’t look up because if she does, she might accidentally look through the crack between the door and the thin metal frame, might accidentally catch the eye of the person coming to kill her, might accidentally invite him in like a vampire, giving him permission to put a bullet through her head and turn her whole world to darkness.

(In her mind, the gun belongs to a man. He is tall and thin and faceless.)

If she doesn’t look up, she can’t see him, he can’t see her. She is invisible.

So she stares at the ground. 

Her scuffed white sneakers balance on the sides of the toilet. She’s seen this before, in movies. Whenever someone hides in a bathroom, they always stand on the toilet to make it seem like there’s no one inside. She’d always thought it was smart.

She watches through blurry eyes as tears fall off her cheek and sink into her cheerleading uniform. 

She can’t stop crying, and she knows she has to, which just makes her cry harder.

Her quiet, stifled sobs echo fill the tiny space. It’s too loud, and she knows it. 

_Stop it,_ she thinks. 

There are two other people in the bathroom with her. She knows, because when the first gunshot rang out, two people burst into the bathroom from the hallway. Another Cheerio, and a boy. Two pairs of terrified eyes met hers for a split second before all three of them rushed into the stalls. She knows they’re on either side of her, hands probably braced against the walls just like hers, their skin separated by half an inch of smooth beige metal. Neither of them are making any sound. She’s putting them all at risk.

_Stop,_ she thinks. 

Her heart is beating so fast she’s afraid it may just break and stop completely. She can feel the pulsing in her face, her temples, her throat. 

_Breathe,_ she thinks, and her sobs even out, a little.

Her mind is flying.

Her mom. Her dad. The other kids in the choir room. Dancing. She loves to dance, so much. She can’t dance if she gets killed. Lord Tubbington, and who will feed him if she’s dead? She’s too young. She hasn’t even graduated. She was supposed to graduate. If she had graduated, she wouldn’t be here. Sam. Was anyone hurt when the first shots went off? There’s nowhere to run. She doesn’t want to die in a bathroom. That evil-genius cat, he’ll get into so much trouble if she’s not around to keep an eye on him. She doesn’t want her mom to cry. There’s so much she wants to do, still. She’s not ready. 

Her thoughts run wild. She’s thinking too loud, she’s sure of it. 

The door to the bathroom creaks open. 

She stops breathing. Her blood is ice.

Footsteps on the tiles.

_Santana,_ she thinks. 

_I am about to die,_ she thinks.

_Santana._

~

They’re twelve years old, at cheerleading camp. 

They’re outside with the rest of the girls in the campground clearing, watching the movie projected on a bedsheet strung behind two trees.

The sun had set hours ago, painting the sky a beautiful pink and orange that Brittany had stopped dead in the middle of making s’mores to watch. (Her marshmallow had caught on fire almost instantly, and Santana had used the impromptu torch to wave at the other girls, cackling.) 

Now the only light in the area emanates from the makeshift screen, flickering over the upturned faces of a dozen enraptured girls sitting on the ground.

Brittany and Santana had chosen a spot at the back of the group, mostly because by the end of the weeklong camp Santana had managed to seriously offend––if not outright terrorize––the majority of the other campers, and wasn’t exactly welcome among them. (Brittany wasn’t about to sit away from Santana, so.)

The position of quasi-privacy had seemed a good idea at the time, with the birds chirping and the fire crackling and the sunset still sending light colors drifting overhead. 

But at some point, the sounds of birds and fire had turned into buzzing mosquitoes and distant coyotes. The color had leached from the sky as darkness fell, and the two girls were left with their backs exposed to the deep black woods.

The other girls voted for some high-budget Hollywood horror flick with blood and ghosts and possessed infants and just about every un-Brittany thing imaginable _._

(Brittany had worried her bottom lip when the selection was reached, but Santana had gripped her hand a little tighter and whispered _it’s just a movie, Britt,_ and Brittany hadn’t said anything.)

An hour later and Brittany is curled tightly on her side with her head in Santana’s lap, heart racing, flinching at every snapping branch or hooting owl in the woods behind them. Santana runs her fingers soothingly through Brittany’s hair and over her back, right hand free for Brittany to squeeze into a pulp. She makes scathing remarks every time one of the characters on screen does something stupid, things like, _sure, chase the haunted priest with no weapon, that’ll end perfectly,_ and, _if he doesn’t see the axe, he deserves to die! No me gusta._ And despite the shushing and dirty looks she gets from the other girls, Brittany knows Santana’s doing it for her. 

It doesn’t help, not really.

Near the climax of the movie, the music cuts out and a lone shaky camera follows a hapless reporter down an endless hallway lined with empty doorways, gaping recesses that Brittany’s imagination populates with teeth and knives and monsters. She shifts around and buries her face in Santana’s hip and the comfort of her familiar Santana smell, as the other girl leans down and murmurs _close your eyes, Britt-Britt, I’m right here. Just close your eyes._

The pulsing images of stabbings and distorted jumpscare faces fade from behind her eyelids as Brittany’s world narrows down.

The feeling of Santana’s rough jean shorts against her face. The feeling of Santana’s hip bone pressing into her forehead. The feeling of Santana’s fingers scratching lightly against her scalp. 

_Close your eyes, Brittany._

The feeling of Santana.

~

Her eyes are closed now, and Santana isn’t here. 

No one is here. She’s going to die alone.

It’s silent. Just like the movie, the weightless moment right before the music comes crashing back and the world resumes its chaos. 

She is floating.

And then all at once, the sound comes back, and the sound says, “Brittany?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because no one can convince me Brittany’s last thought wouldn’t have been Santana.


	3. Three Minutes Without Oxygen

Tina says “gunshots” and you stop breathing.

You’re moving through your apartment automatically. You’re throwing on a coat and you’re yelling at Berry and Lady Hummel, and you’re out the door and on the stairs. 

Tina says “Brittany” and from the way your insides plummet, you’re absolutely sure you’ve fallen the rest of the four stories to the ground. “She’s not with the rest of them” turns corkscrews in your mind, burrowing deeper and deeper and deeper.

Kurt wrenches the phone from your hand and Rachel grabs your arm and your three-person machine starts chugging again.

Tina says “police” and you’re on the sidewalk and you’re in the street and Rachel is right next to you, and you’re both yelling for a cab.

Kurt is grabbing you and saying something about Mr. Schue, and you can’t really hear him because he’s saying “Brittany,” but your whole brain is already screaming “Brittany,” chanting it over and over, “Brittany,” and “Brittany,” and  _ Britt _ , and a taxi screeches to a stop next to the curb and you’re all piling in. 

(Rachel’s face is pale but she orders the driver to JFK in her trademark Rachel Berry Gold Star Listen-Up Tone, and you are suddenly very thankful that you ended up friends.)

You’ve never had a problem with car sickness before, but you spend this whole ride gnawing on your bottom lip, head in your hands. 

You’re praying. It’s been a while. You’re not sure you’re doing it right. You think you remember Quinn going on about “Heavenly Father,” or “Jesus,” but you really don’t know how you’re supposed to  _ address _ these things. (So, you stop thinking.) 

It’s addressed to no one in particular and it goes something like:  _ don’t take her away from me, please, please, please— _

And then, because you feel like you have to include some justification here, you add:  _ she’s beautiful, she’s innocent, she’s everything that’s good in this miserable, stinking world. _

You figure using the same words you used with Irish can’t hurt, on the off chance he brings you some actual leprechaun magic.

Somewhere between the cab and the ticket kiosk Kurt gets a text from Blaine. “They’re alright,” he’s breathing, high voice pitched even higher with relief. “All of them, they’re all okay.” 

You don’t let yourself believe it, not fully.

Somewhere between overpaying for tickets and boarding, you get your own text. 

_ im ok, _ it says. 

_ I’m coming to you, _ you reply. 

You’ve never had a problem with flying before, but you spend this whole ride with your eyes closed and your fists clenched tightly in your lap. 

The sun is setting when you land in Columbus. It’s dark when the three of you fall off the train and into Lima.

Burt Hummel is waiting at the platform. You’re in the truck before Kurt even finishes embracing his father. 

Kurt says, “Brittany’s first, Dad. Please,” and you are overwhelmed with how much you care about him in that moment.

(You resolve to be a better roommate.)

Ten minutes gets you to her house. Ten seconds gets you to her door.

If Whitney Pierce is surprised to see you, she doesn’t show it. She lets you in with a small smile and a hug, before nodding you up the stairs.

You could make this walk in your sleep.

The first time you hesitate is outside her bedroom door. You knock softly, to no response. 

“Britt?” You call, tentatively. “It’s me.”

You hear a heavy thump, like something falling over, and then the door is getting pulled open and she’s  _ here _ and she’s looking at you with wide blue eyes and she’s tall and blonde and just as you left her and your heart squeezes. 

You take a second, because you knew, intellectually, that she was alright, but you were maybe expecting her to not be. You were maybe expecting her to not open the door at all, maybe never again. 

You take that second, you spend it in that alternate reality where Brittany isn’t standing before you, and then you burn that universe to the ground.

She’s saying “you’re wearing pajamas, San,” and you’re saying “you didn’t even change out of your uniform?” and then you’re both laughing and maybe crying (because maybe you’ve been crying this whole time), and she’s dragging you into her room and you’re pulling her into your arms and something tight and twisted within you unravels. 

She’s okay, and you’re taking your first real breath since New York.


	4. Planet Earth Is Blue

Santana’s never liked the cat.

He’s big, and bloated, and probably diseased. He leaves hair everywhere. He’ll eat anything as long as it’s not actual cat food, and he chews on her shoes whenever she comes over like some sort of pig-sized dog-feline. She kind of, actually, hates the cat. But Brittany inexplicably loves him, so she’s pushed all of her hatred deep down inside and never mentioned it. 

And now there are two of them.

“Britt,” she whispers.

“Mm.”

They’re curled together on top of Brittany’s bed. Brittany, in her Cheerios uniform. Santana, in her pajamas from the night before, from six hundred miles away. Brittany’s nestled with her back snug against Santana’s chest, Santana’s arm draped over her like a blanket. Santana can feel Brittany playing with her hand, though all she can see over the top of a blonde head and sloped shoulder is two sets of vertical pupils staring at her from atop Brittany’s dresser across the room. 

“Tubbs cloned himself,” Santana’s breath tickles the back of Brittany’s neck. The other girl giggles and presses featherlight kisses to the tips of Santana’s fingers. When she speaks, Santana feels the vibration in her whole body.

“That’s Lady Tubbington. She’s my fake baby, with Sam.”

Santana pulls Brittany impossibly closer. 

“Oh?” She suppresses the surge of jealousy that rises within her. She doesn’t need to think about Trouty right now. He’s irrelevant, because he’s wherever, and she’s here. 

She’s here and Brittany’s here and that’s it, that’s the whole world.

~

They haven’t talked about it.

They’d practically fallen onto the bed together from the moment Brittany opened the door, too lost in relief, in holding each other, to really acknowledge what had happened. Talking about it means thinking about it. Thinking about it means re-living it and, well.

Which is why Santana’s not ready when Brittany says, “I thought about you.”

They had turned out the lights a few hours ago, content to just be together, dozing. They’ve switched positions, lying flat, Brittany’s head cushioned on Santana’s breast. She’s not going to complain about that. But it means she’s certain Brittany can feel her heart speed up at the words.

Santana runs her hand up and down Brittany’s arm, soothing her, silently urging her to continue.

“When I...I thought I was going to…” she trails off. “I thought about you. Not about Sam, or my mom, or like, God or anyone else. Just you.” 

Santana’s breath hitches, and Brittany’s voice gets even softer. “I don’t know what that means, San. I think it’s important. I wanted you to know.”

Santana’s silent for a moment.  _ I thought about you. _ How does she respond to that? She’s never been good at expressing her feelings, it’s why she’d use music in high school whenever she’d needed to convey something impossible. Songs are easy. Someone else has already written the words. 

She doesn’t really think there’s a song that would work for this moment.

“I couldn’t lose you,” is what she finally says. Honesty, she can do this. She squeezes Brittany’s arm. “I’ve never been more scared in my whole life than when Tina called me today. I mean, I came here, right? I dragged Berry and Lady Hummel to the airport even though I knew I’d never get here in time to be helpful. It was like my brain shut down, because every part of me knew I had to get to you.” Honesty. She’s on a roll now. “I couldn’t lose you. I  _ can’t _ lose you, Britt. Do you get what I’m saying?”

She’s only aware of the tears on her face when Brittany starts to blindly kiss them off in the darkness. Santana’s breathing goes shallow as Brittany slides easily onto her lap, straddling her and cupping her face in both hands. This was always the easy part for them. Brittany knows Santana’s body better than she knows herself. 

Santana’s voice is slightly hoarse as she gazes up at the Brittany-shaped shadow above her, hands resting on hips barely covered by a pleated skirt. 

“I love you, Brittany. I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone else in this world.”

She doesn’t know how else to say it. She’s just repeating back the words that changed her life, that have been echoing in her head for two years. 

She’s freefalling, maybe has been since,  _ you were in college working part time waiting tables, _ and she senses the ground coming up to meet her now.

Brittany kisses her. Hard.

It’s bruising, and desperate, and her hand comes up to hold the back of Brittany’s neck as Brittany sucks the other girl’s bottom lip into her mouth and  _ bites, _ drawing a moan from Santana. 

It feels like being caught.

Santana’s lips ache, and it’s nothing like the empty hollow that’s filled her for months. It’s an ache of desire, of needing something so badly, and then  _ getting _ it, all at once.

Her tongue slides against Brittany’s and it sends a bolt of sensation shooting through her, coming to a rest between her legs.

It feels like flying.

Santana grips Brittany’s waist even as Brittany’s hips grind down and it says,  _ I missed you. _ Brittany brushes Santana’s hair out of her face with her thumbs even as Santana tangles her hand in blonde tresses and it says,  _ I missed you, too. _

It feels like coming home.


End file.
